


Monsters of the Human Kind

by byronicmusings



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Hero, Blood and Violence, Dark Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Mild Gore, Wolf Pack, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmusings/pseuds/byronicmusings
Summary: It is always a delight, dealing with monsters of the human kind. A sadistic satisfaction of a sort.(or, Geralt goes hunting with the wolves)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70





	Monsters of the Human Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Written with KillingMonsters!Geralt in mind
> 
> Geralt’s bond with the wolves is inspired by Fitz and Nighteyes from Robin Hobb’s Farseer trilogy (which i highly recommend, if you're into dark fantasy).

He can feel it when they are here.

A gradual expanding of the senses, like a yawn coming on. Soft exhales of air, corded muscles rippling in his back. The autumn breeze on his fur. A guttural voice reverberates in his mind, an echo in a hollow chamber.

_We are here, brother._

He knows. 

He does not need to turn to find where they are. It is an extension of sorts, a heightened awareness, an invisible link of consciousness tethering the dozen of them all together. He closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind, tugs gently at the strings. He feels coarse grass under his belly, soft soil under his paws. Sees himself kneeling next to a weathered tree. 

His eyes snap open. 

It is always disorienting, seeing himself through another’s eyes. Clenching his gloved fists, he takes deep even breaths. Attempts to anchor himself through the harsh leather on his hands and the feel of wind on his face. 

_Careful, brother._

A grey wolf nonchalantly saunters up to him from behind. A display of lazy confidence, a predator with nothing to fear. Amber eyes turn on him, similar to his own. Deep with hints of brown, where his are bright and gold. They sparkle with amusement.

_You might become one of us._

Geralt grunts. 

He scans the area, eyes catching on the glistening afternoon sun. It is a large group of them - fifteen heartbeats he had counted, fast but weak. Together the fire might scorch the witcher, but separated they are glowing candles in the open, waiting for a breeze. 

_We will do this quietly._

It is not so much of a command, for in this they are all equals. A pack of like minded hunters with a common goal, gears working in sync. They could charge in there, of course, all fangs and steel, but where would the fun in that be? The thrill of the hunt lies in the stalking of prey, flittering shadows in the grass. Striking where least expected. The strangled gasps of surprise as they breathe their last.

He hears not but feels the affirmation of the wolves around him, senses the low growls of anticipation and the growing tension in the air. His own blood thrums with energy, much like a coiled spring ready for release. He revels in it. _They are ready for the hunt._

The bandit encampment is big, located next to a small stream. Tents of canvas stand tall and sturdy, dirty and muddied sheets of beige. The bandits chatter incessantly, full of vulgar jokes and boisterous laughs. Their presence feels like an intrusion, a smear on the white surface of the forest, an unpleasant scraping against gentle birdsong and tranquil water. It grates on his nerves, sends a flash of irritation prickling through his skin. He knows his brethren feel the same, feels their bond tighten in a moment of shared emotion. 

_Patience, white one. They will be gone soon._

Four are in the leader’s tent, discussing strategy and where to strike next. Majority are gathered in the center, around an empty pot of stew. Several guards linger on the outskirts, weapons hanging limply on their waists. The men had just eaten, bellies full, alertness dulled. 

It will catch them in surprise. It always does.

One of the bandits walks in his direction, stops at a tree. He neither sees nor hears Geralt approach until it is too late, until a warm hand tightens at his neck and a knife is thrust through his heart. He goes down silently, slumping against leather armour, gasping for air Geralt will not give. Geralt hauls the body back, conceals him behind a bush.

Turning his gaze back to the camp, he spots two streaks of white on the opposite side of the forest - a split second of movement, a choked sound, barely a whisper to his witcher senses. He extends his consciousness towards them, towards the four beating hearts - two erratic, irregular beats drowning out the steady ones beneath. 

It happens in a sudden - gurgling noises fill his ears, the coppery taste of blood floods his mouth. He tries not to gag as he looks down at the limp body below him, at the mangled neck clamped between his jaws. Blood trickles down onto the forest floor in parallel lines as the two wolves drag their prey into the shadowy depths of the forest, never to be seen again. Two flames extinguished, with barely a puff of air.

He hears something again, in the distance. A snap of a twig and a rough male voice calling out a name. Geralt curses his own carelessness as he comes back to himself, as the lingering sweetness of this afternoon’s berries return to his tongue. He attempts to duck behind a tree, but he is too slow and the bandit too near. Both men freeze as they make eye contact. 

A look of alarm flashes across the bandits features. _Shit_ , Geralt thinks, as the man opens his mouth to shout a warning, _too slow -_

And then one of his own is there, hurling himself at the man. A bolt of lighting, a graceful leap of rippling muscles, strong jaws snapping close around the man’s neck. 

There is a spray of blood, red and bright in the setting sun. It entrances him, for a moment, the display of raw power, glistening with a forbidden and twisted beauty of a kind. Crimson splatters on the forest ground, leaves flutter about in the scuffle. The force of the impact throws the man's body against a tree. How lightly he flew - he was a doll between the wolves' teeth. 

The wolf spits flesh out, lands lightly on its feet. Aquamarine eyes turn on him. Like the ocean, Geralt muses. Cool and calm on the outside, hiding the strength of invisible currents under. Specks of blood drips off its muzzle, stark against white fur. 

_There will be a time for admiration later, brother._

Geralt huffs in reply.

The bandits in the middle of the camp disperse to their own posts, unaware of the shadows lurking in the forest. The wolves and Geralt follow a sort of unspoken rhythm, expertly luring individual guards out with snapped twigs or axii, springing out from behind trees and tents. They wear the forest like a cloak, slipping in and out of sight. Dragging bodies and concealing them in shadows of thickets and wilderness, descending like reapers of death. The larks and sparrows overhead chirp merrily all the while, as if unaware of the bloodshed happening below them. Perhaps they do not care, or perhaps they are as eager to see the bandits gone. Either way Geralt is glad, for the sound of falling bodies and ripping flesh is cloaked by lively birdsong. 

They manage to clear the camp of bandits in a matter of minutes, picking them off one by one, leaving no trace of the bandits save for several specks and trails of blood on the ground. There is the patter of footsteps just then, before the tent flap opens, revealing a glimpse of an interior packed with heavy chests. The leader is the first to walk out - a harsh looking man, scars raking across his features. He speaks to the three bandits behind, gesturing distractedly. It takes a second for the empty camp to register, for him to halt in his tracks, a look of alarm passing across his face. 

For a moment all is silent and still - broken only by the soft rustling of the tent flaps, the empty pot creaking ominously on its metal hook. 

And then Geralt emerges from the trees into the dying sunlight, sword unsheathed, grey steel reflecting the last of the golden rays. He feels the weight of their eyes landing on him, feels the haze of confusion and alarm morph into targeted hostility. The bandits draw their crude weapons of bloodied bats and sharp axes, shout obscenities and violent promises.

Geralt _smiles_.

It has often been described as frightening, this smile - wolfish and predatory, all sharp teeth. A vicious glint in his eyes, corners crinkling with the anticipation of what is to come. The blood on his cheek shines darkly against white hair and pale skin, weeps like tears from the corners of his scar. 

His brothers step out around him, snarling. They surround the bandits, trap them like fish in a net. The wolves advance forward, slow but steady, predators all too aware of their prey’s inevitable demise. The bandits are already dead to them, cornered as they are, noose around their neck. All that is left is to kick the stool and stand back. 

Geralt tastes the sour tang of heightened fear and confusion in the air, the nervous eyes darting from side to side. A slight trembling of the hands, wrapped around their weapons in white knuckled grips. Beads of sweat trickle down their scarred faces. One witcher, they thought they could handle. Now they face a pack. 

The wolves lunge as one being, swift and merciless like an executioner's axe. They tear into the men with animalistic fury, drink in the strangled cries like wine at a feast. Teeth sinking in flesh, ribbons of blood and gore arcing through the air. The bandit leader stands alone in the center, untouched by the wolves. Bewildered and disoriented, he looks around frantically as they descend on his companions around him.

Geralt stalks forward calmly, expertly dodges stray limbs and snapping jaws. The battle parts around him easily like the red sea, the gleam of a knife through crimson silk. 

He meets the terrified man’s gaze as he scrambles back, tripping on his own feet, his weapon clattering uselessly onto the floor. ‘W-what do y-you want? I have coin, I’ll- I'll give you anything-’

Geralt laughs, cold and harsh. 

It is always a delight, dealing with monsters of the human kind. A sadistic satisfaction of a sort. To see the horror and fear flash across the features of those so used to inflicting it. To hear the frantic pleas for forgiveness and mercy that they so eagerly ignore spilling from their own lips. 

He strides over to the man, hauls him up. Presses the bandit’s back against his front. An arm around his neck, Geralt bends forward to whisper into his ear. 

_‘Look,’_ he purrs, voice deep but soft, deceptively gentle and sweet. A wolf drags a bandit across the floor, lower half of the body missing, a string of guts spilling from his torso onto the grass beneath him. 

‘ _Listen_ ,’ he murmurs, at the dying screams of pain, the growling of the wolves, the sickening tearing of skin and bone. A severed arm plops at their feet. He feels the bandit’s heart battering against his chest in rapid beats.

‘I’ve heard quite a bit of your merry band, of your… exploits in neighbouring villages and towns. Blood on the walls, nails in burnt flesh. Chained women and children bludgeoned to death.’ 

The screams had stopped. The remnants of the bandits lie scattered across the blood-soaked ground. The moon peeks overhead, a faint stream of moonlight shining through the trees. 

The wolves turn to them, eyes glowing in the dark. 

‘Oh g-gods, p-please no-’ the man stammers.

Geralt laughs, this time loud and amused. 

‘The gods, it seems, have thrown you to the wolves.’ 


End file.
